


we tied our hands at night / but i nearly flew away

by Polyworth (Jellibeebee)



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Weddings, madara is just..................... madara, this seems like it's sad but it's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14581953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellibeebee/pseuds/Polyworth
Summary: (if only things were different / we'dve married in the day)In which Madara and Hashirama get married.





	we tied our hands at night / but i nearly flew away

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the merry month of may](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14567868) by [theadventuresof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof). 



> I wrote this at work because this fic ( https://archiveofourown.org/works/14567868 ) inspired me. I don't think I've ever actually read these two getting married before-- maybe I'll take another crack at it some time with a different kind of tone, haha.

Hashirama and Madara are married in the dark.

The midsummer air is hot and thick against Madara’s skin—his face, the exposed line of his neck (just for this evening, just for this one occasion), the careful curve of his bare hands tightly intertwined with Hashirama’s sturdy, steady ones. He wishes there were a breeze, but the evening air has chosen to be stagnant and suffocating, entirely unacceptable for the meadow behind that stupid carving of Hashirama’s face (the one that Hashirama had wanted to be  _ his _ ).

Cicadas sing in the still grasses and the stars bear silent witness from far above in the bruise dark sky. Apart from Mito, who stands between them to officiate, and Tobirama, who stands to the other side of his brother to bear a more credible witness than the stars and cicadas—they are alone, standing on the cliffside where they made promises once before.

There is an empty space at Madara’s back like an open wound, a void that pulls the heat from his body, which is not as soothing as he might have hoped, considering the night. Focusing on the unfortunately sweaty press of his hands into Hashirama’s helps him to ignore the feeling, but it weighs on his shoulders (and makes his eyes ache).

“We are gathered here tonight to celebrate the union of Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara,” Mito says, her voice soft and sure as nightfall. “Two people who have waited long enough in silence for this moment.”

There is, Madara thinks, a distinct irony in the fact that Hashirama’s wife is the one marrying them. But Mito is eloquent, intelligent, and most of all—she knows how to keep a secret. The way she and Hashirama’s cousin—Touka, wasn’t it?—are never seen together is testament enough of that.

A cold finger of sweat drags itself down Madara’s stiff spine. He is not nervous, it’s humidity.

Mito continues on with her speech, but there is static in Madara’s ears and he cannot for the life of him hear her well enough to make out her words. He’s sure they’re lovely. Hashirama is probably crying already, his tears pulling moonflowers from the fertile earth.

Hashirama.

They brought no lamp for the fear of attracting interest, and tonight the moon has hidden its face. But Madara’s sharingan—when had he activated it?—cuts through most of the dimness on its own, allowing him to make out Hashirama’s features. His brow is creased, an off slant to his mouth--there aren’t tears (yet), only confusion. He runs his calloused thumb over Madara’s scarred knuckles, questioning.

Madara remembers that, in order to live, one has to breathe regularly.

His exhale does not shake while it leaves him. His lungs have created infernos, burned entire forests to the ground; he does not shiver when he breathes. Hashirama rewards him with a gorgeous smile—which does, however, make Madara shiver slightly. Exceptions for forces of nature can be made on the occasion.

Mito is still talking; Madara breathes until he can listen. Hashirama squeezes his hands periodically—either like an excited child, or a patient adult caring for one. It is hard to tell in the dark.

“With this tie, I bind you.” Mito’s deft fingers produce a red silk cord from her sleeve, knotting it around Madara and Hashirama’s clasped hands.

“Senju Hashirama, do you swear to treasure, honor, guard, and love Uchiha Madara until your final breath, and further still into death?”

Madara holds his breath while he watches Hashirama’s smile metamorphosize from indulgent to adoring. He thinks his hearts stops, just for a beat or two. Fear and joy are easily confused emotions, Madara supposes.

“I do so swear; on my honor, on my life, on the very earth we stand on.” Hashirama sounds as breathless as Madara feels, like he’s been holding this line in chest for years now. (He has). Madara wonders how many times Hashirama has practiced it, mumbled it to himself while dressing, whispered it to his own reflection, thought it like a mantra while doing paperwork. Perhaps he did none of those things, though. Perhaps Hashirama hadn’t prepared anything (like Madara had, like Madara practiced) and waited until just this very moment, confident he’d know what to say.

It has always been easier for Hashirama to know what is in his heart. Or, at least, easier for him to know how and when to release whatever resides there.

Mito looks from Hashirama to Madara, a gentleness (is it pity or understanding? He doesn’t like the implication of either) visible even in the darkness around her deep violent eyes.

“Uchiha Madara,” Says Mito.

His heart picks up pace, dancing in his ribcage, fighting to free itself from its confines.

“Do you swear to treasure, honor, guard, and love Senju Hashirama until your final breath, and further still into death?”

There is silence on Madara’s tongue; the words he’s worked on in the bitterness of winter and well into the tenderness of spring are lodged in his throat.

“I.” He says, has to wet his lips. Hashirama’s eager eyes make Madara wish he could sprout wings like his favorite hawks and take off into the night.

Tobirama shifts and Madara catches sight of him from behind Hashirama, a pale fish darting out from under cover in a dark pond. A heat builds in Madara’s chest, burning—melts his frozen limbs, his still tongue. It’s with that impetus he drives himself blindly forward. (Like usual, it’s both calculated and rash. Why did he think he would be able to get through this night calmly?)

“I do so swear; on my ancestors, on my life, on the very eyes I see through.”

Hashirama’s breath catches just enough for Madara to hear. He hopes (desperately) that Hashirama understands his vow that he agonized over, that he appreciates it for what it is. The dampness Madara can just barely detect on Hashirama’s cheeks says that, perhaps—he might.

“Then you are bound forevermore; rejoice, for now you are completed.”

Mito ties a final knot around their hands while Hashirama’s soft mouth finds his—and Madara’s heart takes flight from his chest, leaving him infinitely lighter.

Hashirama and Madara are married in the dark, secreted away from the home they made together. But they are married, and that for now is enough.

 


End file.
